


red and razor-keen

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Badass Gertrude Robinson, Brief Richard Mendelson | Jonah Magnus, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Clothed Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/F, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Power Play, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25771465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: The first time Gertrude and Mary meet, they nearly kill each other.
Relationships: Mary Keay/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35
Collections: Femslash After Dark 2020





	red and razor-keen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DryDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DryDreams/gifts).



The first time Gertrude and Mary meet, they nearly kill each other.

Gertrude is at an auction house, following up on reports of a cursed fountain pen — something about writing in blood, and an author who’d died of exsanguination. Strictly speaking, it’s something the research department should be investigating, or her assistants, but she has a feeling about this one. It will be better for everyone if she’s the one to retrieve it.

All of the other buyers here are old, rich, or both, so Gertrude has found a corner where she can avoid most of the prying eyes, wondering at the presence of an ordinary young woman like herself. In truth, it eases her nerves — this spot is far more defensible than sitting in the crowd.

There are a few other bidders, but by and large, it’s Gertrude raising the price higher and higher. Richard will complain about the expense, but he knows the value of acquiring artefacts such as these — for study, if not for the protection of the wider world. 

“Going once,” the auctioneer calls, once the other bids have dwindled away. “Going twice.”

Gertrude almost fools herself that this will be an easy acquisition.

The auctioneer’s eyes widen, and Gertrude follows his gaze to a woman, roughly Gertrude’s age, standing in an alcove on the other side of the room. Defensible, Gertrude thinks absent-mindedly, watching as the woman makes her first bid of the auction.

Raising her bidding paddle, Gertrude meets her rival’s gaze. The stranger smiles, red-lipped.

As their two-person bidding war continues, the woman makes her way towards the front of the room. She maintains eye contact with Gertrude, moving between the assembled chairs with a grace that makes Gertrude think of hunters — supernatural or otherwise. 

When she reaches the auctioneer, the woman stands on her tiptoes and says something to him. Gertrude can’t quite make out the words, but the front of the crowd shifts uneasily, and the auctioneer looks a little pale. Almost cautious, he names a price. 

It’s an amount of money that no one should be willing to pay for an ordinary fountain pen, no matter how old or high-class. It’s an amount of money that even the Institute will not finance.

The woman turns to face Gertrude. The knowing amusement on her face is enough to confirm Gertrude’s suspicions: this woman knows what that artefact is, and has no intention of letting it go.

“Sold,” the auctioneer calls.

It’s a rare day that Gertrude relies on Beholding’s gifts, but all the same, she can’t help but wish it would give her some insight into what she’s facing. This woman could be anything — from an ordinary collector of horrors, to an agent of one of the powers, human only in appearance.

Beholding gives her nothing, of course. Gertrude will simply have to rely on herself.

She watches as the woman moves back to her place in the alcove, self-satisfied smile fading into an expression of boredom, and slowly, the pieces begin to come together. 

Gertrude keeps track of rumours in their circles, and she’s heard whispers of Mary Keay, a woman with an eye for dangerous artefacts. Never had the opportunity to meet her, which she’d always considered something of a blessing — she’s meant to be a nasty piece of work. 

As in everything, Gertrude’s luck has eventually run out.

Idly, she considers simply stealing the pen from the auction-house. It would mean less risk of confrontation with a very dangerous woman — but such a thing would most likely get the police involved, and given their bidding war, Gertrude would be the primary suspect.

Gertrude would much rather resolve this face-to-face. Given the circles they move in, she’s been long overdue for a meeting with Mary Keay. It’s only polite to finally make introductions. 

A few lots before the end, Gertrude takes her leave. Leaning against a wall outside the building, she spends about five minutes smoking a cigarette and half an hour pretending to. At long last, Mary walks down the front steps. Gertrude drops her burnt-out cigarette, stubbing it below her shoe for good measure, and steps into Mary’s path.

It’s unclear whether Mary’s smile is a good omen or a bad one. It sends a chill down Gertrude’s spine, the sort of instinct she’s learnt to trust over the years.

“Mary Keay, wasn’t it?”

“Charmed.” Mary offers her hand, nails gleaming with bright colour. Against her better judgement, Gertrude takes it, shaking it once. “And you’d be the Archivist, wouldn’t you?”

“Gertrude Robinson,” she corrects. Mary waves a hand, airily dismissive. Gertrude resists the urge to bite out something scathing, and continues, “Miss Keay, would you walk with me?”

“Hm.” Mary taps a finger against her lips. “I’ve got nothing else pressing to do.”

With arms interlinked, they must look like any other pair of young women on a day out. Where their hips touch, Gertrude can feel something solid in Mary’s trouser pocket.

Gertrude steers them into an alley. As soon as they’re out of prying eyes, Mary twists Gertrude’s arm backwards — not quite dislocation, but it’s a close thing. Teeth gritted with pain, Gertrude wrenches her arm from Mary’s grasp and pushes her against one of the alley walls.

With one arm against Mary’s windpipe, Gertrude presses her other hand into her pocket, fingers closing around something hard and cool and pulling it out into the open air.

It’s not the fountain pen, but a straight razor — antique, at a guess.

Really, Gertrude should know better than to get cocky.

Mary takes advantage of Gertrude’s distraction, knocking her arm away and pushing her against the opposite wall of the alley. Gertrude’s head collides with the bricks; she blinks away stars.

In this position, Gertrude has just enough leverage to flick the razor open, pressing it against Mary’s shirt. Mary’s wide eyes gleam, knife-silver and just as sharp. Gertrude doesn’t doubt that this razor has shed plenty of blood while wrapped in Mary’s pale fingers.

“Are you going to kill me, Miss Robinson? All for a little fountain pen that doesn’t harm anyone except the fool who uses it?” Mary’s innocent smile is full of knowledge, plans of how to wield that fountain pen glimmering in the hungry place behind her teeth. 

“I have no doubt that you’d deserve it,” Gertrude snaps, but she can’t make herself draw blood.

Mary Keay is clearly a guilty woman, but she has the potential to be a very useful one as well. In the few years that Gertrude has been Head Archivist, she’s learned the utility of forming allegiances with those who you would like to see dead.

Without warning, Mary kisses her, so hard that Gertrude almost thinks it’s another attack. It’s probably meant as one — some kind of psychological power-play — but all it does is give Gertrude ideas of another way to deal with this situation.

Even when the kiss breaks, Mary stays close, her voice no louder than a conspiratorial whisper. “I imagine you don’t do that sort of thing,” she says, “locked up in that stuffy little office of yours.”

Gertrude knows what game she’s playing, knows to let her eyes drop to Mary’s lips. “On the contrary…” she counters, letting the sentence trail off in a crude sort of seduction.

She flicks the razor closed with one swift movement. Holding eye contact with Mary, she runs Gertrude runs her hands down Mary’s hips, depositing the blade back in its pocket. Her hands linger at Mary’s side, fingers tracing circles across the fabric.

A woman like Mary should cackle like a fairytale witch; instead, her laugh is warm and girlish, the sort of sound that Gertrude has never had the time for making. 

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Miss Robinson?”

Before Gertrude can get a word in edgeways, Mary kisses her again. It’s gentler this time, in the same way that poison is gentler than a knife. At the same time, Mary runs her hands underneath Gertrude’s skirt, snapping the elastic of her underwear against her skin.

Gertrude gasps into the kiss, and to Mary’s credit as a lover, it’s only _mostly_ fake.

It’s like Mary has never heard of taking her time; once she’s had her fill of groping Gertrude, her fingers dance downwards, pressing cotton into sensitive skin and beginning to rub. 

Pushing her hands under Mary’s shirt, Gertrude wonders precisely how much she’s expected to reciprocate. It isn’t that she has distaste for such things, but she’s neutral enough that play-acting enthusiasm is something of a hassle. Mary’s skin is at least soft, she supposes.

Gertrude negotiates her way around Mary’s bra, and Mary shudders like an earthquake as Gertrude brushes across one of her nipples, already hard. Gertrude files that away with the rest of what she knows about Mary; it could be useful information to have in future.

“Don’t you dare,” Mary murmurs, pulling away. Her cheeks are flushed. “I’m going to take you apart, Archivist, and you’re not going to distract me.”

“You’re too confident—” Gertrude starts, but then Mary is touching her in earnest. 

It’s brutal, far too punishing to be enjoyable in anything except the most physical of ways. Luckily, Gertrude’s body is as human and fallible as anyone else’s. She tilts her head back against the wall, sparks dancing across her vision, and forces her natural gasps to become outright moans. Christ, she feels undignified.

“Are all of the Eye’s lot like this?” Mary sounds almost conversational, light and airy and amused. “I mean, anyone could see us.”

It’s humiliating that those words are what sends a bolt of genuine want through Gertrude’s core, a violent, vicious pleasure that has her bucking her hips against Mary’s body.

There, in Mary’s other pocket— the fountain pen. Or perhaps another straight razor, but that would be excessive, and Mary seems like the type of woman to carry precisely what she needs. 

With a faintly giddy sigh, Gertrude refocuses on her goal. Mary doesn’t seem interested in her own pleasure, just in ruining Gertrude’s composure, so she doesn’t comment as Gertrude’s hands slide back down to her hips — one squeezing Mary’s arse, the other sliding the fountain pen from Mary’s pocket and into the sleeve of Gertrude’s cardigan.

Whatever Mary thinks is happening, she doubles her efforts, and it isn’t long before Gertrude is coming. Her legs shake underneath her, and her hands fall from Mary’s sides entirely as she steadies herself against the wall behind her.

“Well, then,” she manages, after a moment, “I look forward to working with you in future.”

Gertrude lets her head drop as Mary hums in amusement. She has a compact mirror in her hand, and she’s reapplying her lipstick with deliberate movements.

“I imagine you need all the help you can get,” Mary replies, pressing her lips together. The snap of her compact shutting is like a predator’s jaws. “Eric has nothing but complaints about your Archives. The way I hear it, the Institute is as much of a mess as you are.”

Gertrude isn’t so rash as to be misdirected by petty insults. Mary has handed her a key piece of a puzzle she didn’t know she was solving, and now everything is slotting into place.

“You’re Eric’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” Gertrude asks, injecting as much scorn into her voice as she can summon. If she could fire Eric, it’s possibly she’d do so for simple bad taste.

The smile that Mary gives her is answer enough.

As she steps closer, telegraphing all of her movements, Mary’s hand settles on Gertrude’s neck and pulls her into a kiss. It’s almost soft, but for the sting of Mary’s teeth scraping against Gertrude’s lips— and it’s over quick. Mary inclines her head, then turns on her heel and leaves.

Gertrude leans back against the wall, regaining her breath. Eric really does have the worst taste, she muses — and she’s hardly sure what a woman like Mary sees in _Eric,_ of all people.

After a few moments of composing herself, Gertrude walks to the nearest Tube station. A taxi would be easier, but she’s not in the mood for small talk or personal questions. On the Tube, there’s no one to judge her as she reaches into her sleeve and pulls out the fountain pen.

Well, Richard will be pleased. Nothing to expense except her transport costs.

She arrives at the Institute without any further incident. As she’s walking towards Artefact Storage, Richard steps out of his office and catches her on the arm. His expression fades from politely affable to politely concerned as he looks her over.

“Gertrude. You’re rather a mess,” he comments. “Run into unexpected trouble?”

Gertrude reaches up and brushes a loose hair out of her eyes. Matching Richard’s false politeness, she smiles, self-satisfied. The red of Mary’s smudged lipstick had been almost as satisfying as drawing blood.

“Nothing I couldn’t deal with.”


End file.
